


Litrinir

by subchesters



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biting, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Gothic, Light Angst, M/M, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Slow Burn, Vampire Shiro (Voltron), Vampire Turning, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-19 13:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22445221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subchesters/pseuds/subchesters
Summary: A vampire's life is long, for this is a fact Shiro knows: he's had hundreds of years to experience everything and anything that it's impossible to think anything interesting will happen anymore. He finds himself just going through the motions of it without any real expectations anymore.It's not until he meets man named Keith, sick with consumption and bleeding in an alley from an attack by horse thieves on Christmas Eve, that he begins to think something new can happen.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69





	Litrinir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Genesister2](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Genesister2).



> This was written for the Sheith secret santa, that once again, I'm late for but real life wanted to happen and take away literal weeks of being able to work on this. My recipient asked for Shiro turning Keith on Christmas Day, but I def stretched this out beyond that, where it can seem like a footnote, but it's definitely there.
> 
> This fic went through three different complete overhauls cause I was dissatisfied with the direction of them. I spent a lot of time rewriting and discarding drafts, one of them being almost 6k cause I just didn't like the tone I was writing, and trying to figure out why I just didn't like what I was writing. This is the fourth version of this fic that I could finally get to flow in a direction that I liked. I'm still a little unsure about it, but I'm warming up to it.
> 
> There are some historical references in this, as well as some terminology that might be confusing, so here's a quick reference:
> 
> 1\. Consumption is what is known as tuberculosis.
> 
> 2\. People thought sickness and germs was caused by miasma, or bad smells, so many tried to avoid it with perfumes and nice-smelling things.
> 
> 3\. References to the beginnings of the Chinese Exclusion Act. China faced some pretty bad times through the mid 1800s, and as you could guess, white Americans were very Not Happy to welcome non-white non-American people.
> 
> 4\. References to tenements, which were super crowded and cramped apartments that would have 10 - 20 people in a single unit where every individual person was charged. It was set up by factory owners for people to live closer to factories. As you can probably guess, they jacked up the prices on it and paid off inspectors to say nothing about the health and living conditions of them.
> 
> 5\. Rich people didn't exactly treat their maids and servants very well. They often lived in the basement and the staircase leading to it was super steep and had small steps that, as you can guess that didn't have much money or real thought put into it, that many were injured from slipping and falling, while carrying a lot of stuff as they suffocated in corsets.
> 
> Among those, there's quite a bit of research that went into this in order make sure certain points in history were unfolding at the time when I put this fic's setting. I know, I know, creative liberties can be taken but I kinda like tying history into a fic's setting and trying to get as close to historical accuracy as possible. You know, just minus the vampires.

_Southwestern_ _Arizona  
_ _December 24, 1867_

Blood doesn’t taste like it used to.

Shiro stares at the glass clutched in his hand, watching as he slowly rocks a glass along the counter his elbows are set against, watching with a dwindling interest as blood swirls along the glass, smearing along the sides of the glass. He gives the glass one last tilt, blood coming close to spilling over the rim before he sighs, and sets it back down on the counter.

The contents of the glass, once upon a time, would have been a welcomed sight, where Shiro would make haste in accepting it and would anticipate the slide of it down his throat. He would welcome the rush of power the blood would give him, and the rejuvenation of his spirit.  
Instead, Shiro pushes the glass away, his interest for the blood having left him completely.

Now, it’s just more of a routine that Shiro goes through, a muscle memory that is ingrained in him that Shiro no longer has to think about his actions, and know that he’ll complete them. It’s a mere force that is unseen to the eye that works through his system with no resistance from Shiro.

Shiro pushes the glass to the edge of the counter.

Gone are the days of enjoyment of blood down his throat. These days find Shiro less interested in wanting the taste of it on his tongue. Shiro has found that the longer time goes on, an unnatural tone to blood has been slowly emerging. It's a bitter flavor that that Shiro had never encountered before. It tastes of smoke and ash, an influence that is a direct result from factories that have been spreading from larger cities on the eastern side of America.

With the spread of factories, it's left Shiro to wonder if they’ll be able to make something out of the vast, uninhabited red lands of the desert on this side of America. It's a land that man hasn't seemed to come to understand much about, more or less how to use it. Man has tried many times to tame the these vast lands of cactus and sand and cracked dirt but has found himself unable to understand how to make it yield. Man has come to know that inside these deserts, there are a multitude of things that has them hesitant: it's the call of coyotes toiling in the unseeable dark in the distance that makes a man too fearful to cross the valleys. It's the vultures that stare down at anything they perceive to succumb to the vast emptiness of the desert to be too much of an omen for them to brave.

He thinks on it sometimes. Will the rattlesnakes that hide just under the sand be too elusive for man to be unsure of walking alone along an abandoned path make him too paranoid to continue, or will it be the cougars that prowl the darkness in hopes of coming across a poor, unfortunate soul that keeps man from wanting to venture into the night? Factories seem to be too much of an irresistible force that makes man stupid with desire for wealth that they cast away their fear and self-preservation to cross the desert for it, which seems to be the ultimate lesson these days

However, Shiro cannot ignore the prowess of these metal giants, able to make a city out of nothing. But Shiro has learned to never underestimate the sands of the desert and its ability to test a man’s faith. 

This is something Shiro has come to expect every new century: man is always looking to push beyond his wildest dreams. Every century has a new revolution, but this time, it's about machines, one of an industrial kind. Their craft, their machines, are becoming quite the obsession through the world. These trinkets, these items that are claimed to help improve the quality of life are surging, and humans are scrambling to patent more of them. They create faster than anything the vampire has seen, would even dream of in his years walking upon the earth. Factories continue to be built faster to keep up with the demand of more of these machines.

But the more factories that are created, the more Shiro’s senses protest against the smells of the factories that only pour into the air. The smell of smoke and oil stains the humans that work in them, and in turn, saturates their blood with metals that the vampire is finding to be too common these days. 

A brief scent of the glass in front of him confirms a tone of something metallic.

It’s a useless battle, Shiro supposes, to become picky about the blood he would like to enjoy. He would prefer one free of the impurities that these large, smoke-billowing metal contraptions. With smoke more commonplace, reaching to areas far beyond the cities, Shiro knows he doesn’t have much of a choice to adapt and accept that blood will be sullied by the factories. It’s not like the old days, where trees and grassy hills and dirt-paved roads are now things of days past, giving way to more modern inventions of stone roads, tall and imposing buildings of brick and metal bars and the churn machines that require less human supervision to create.

Shiro flicks a nail against the glass, watching the blood ripple inside before stagnating. His nose scrunches lightly, finding himself unable to muster any desire to finish his glass of blood. It’s a good glass, he thinks, blood infused with alcohol, a drink that’s become popular, with enough whiskey to give it a kick but not enough to overpower the blood in it. Instead, Shiro rises, pushing away the stool before reaching in his pocket and setting a few coins onto the counter. 

“Mr. Shirogane, it’s not like a gentleman as yourself to leave blood unattended.”

Shiro glances up, eyeing the bartender, a vampire himself, behind the counter, before he takes a breath through his nose and shakes his head. “I’m sorry about that, but I don’t have a care for blood tonight. It’s not your fault.”

“The blood not to your likin’?”

Shiro eyes the glass for a moment before, “Just no appetite for it. I apologize for wasting.”

The man waves his hand, a dismissive gesture. “It can be replaced, don’t worry ‘bout it.”

\--

The night air is nothing like it used to be.

The shine of stars against the backdrop of a midnight sky becomes dulled from fixtures of light lining the empty streets. There’s the faint churn of gears and metal creaking of carriages making their way through the city, and the ever-insistent chatter of humans that stay late beyond their time to retire to their quarters. The smell of smoke and metal that pour out from factories ruins the crisp night air that Shiro had come to enjoy once upon a time that’s far behind his heels. 

It is with the invention of these lights that less people fear what the night used to offer, when they were unable to find their way through darkness and ill-prepared to defend themselves against the unknown that waits to lay across their backs.

It is with a kind of fascination that Shiro has watched the progression of humans, from simple farmers toiling in their fields and weeping over poor harvest and starvation, to grand cathedrals with arching pillars of prosperity and expensive oils smeared along canvas that adorn every surface the eye can see. He’s seen many facets, all of which are different than when Shiro had possessed his own humanity.

As Shiro walks the streets, the sound of his boots against the ground in his ears, there’s always the sound of factories, faint with the lateness of the hour, but now very much a background sound that he has to deal with. There’s a slight break in the smoke lingering in the air, less cloying, and almost to a point of pleasant with its absence. He doesn’t have to taste the burn of it, his senses don’t have to hold back to keep himself from taking in too much of it. The effects of factories don’t affect him in the way it does for humans, and while Shiro is grateful for that, it’s still unpleasant for his senses to come in contact with it.

It makes sense considering the date, the eve of Christmas upon the town, in its last hours before giving way to Christmas Day. However, not all factories give their workers Christmas off. By all intents, Shiro would have enjoyed a night like this, with its quieted activity and empty streets, with various abandoned alleyways for him to make his way through. When a lone person on the streets would have triggered the desire to make them his prey. His instincts to feed would not go unanswered, and the thrill of the hunt of would have excited him.

With years behind him, and an eternity to look forwards to, the simple pleasures in his life have become dulled and repetitive, and Shiro finds himself going through it with less of a mind. It’s all muscle memory at this point. Even the hunt is no longer thrilling, the very thing vampires have the most care for during their lives. 

It's with the passage of time, when one is given the opportunity to reflect upon their deeds and judge them. Many vampires face a time in their life where they grow to resent their actions or continue to venture down the same path. Shiro has had time to think on himself, what he has done, and finds that his old way of life no longer represents who he is now. A spitfire thing back then that's too bold and quick to react has nothing on himself today. He's more patient, weathered in a way that blunted his sharp corners, and more prone to kindness and consideration that would have had his younger years unsure if he was the same person.

And just like Shiro, humans have changed. People are more perceptive these days, their methods evolving. The sight of corpses and blood no longer cause humans to hide their faces and whisper in in the cover of dark about it. Death isn’t something to shy away from and avoid, not with the way humans are progressing. The sight of a corpse now draws questions, people giving it more attention and looking to understand the why of it. Corpses are no longer forgotten and buried, people want justice and punishment for those who now commit the deed.

It’s late, Shiro knows this, but this is a time where the bustling sounds of the city have quieted enough for his liking. Inside Shiro’s body is a muted and severely dulled interest in blood, one that is easily ignored, that sits quietly at the back of his mind. He briefly thinks back to the glass of blood he had turned down, but thinking of the taint from factories that now are becoming a fixture in the town’s blood supply, it’s able to repress any real urge he might have had. 

There’s a brush against his senses that causes him to stop along his path toward his home.

There aren’t many people on the streets at this hour, especially considering the day it is. It’s Christmas Eve, where most are huddled into their homes, gathering around food and drink to share with their families. No matter how meager their festivities are, it’s brightened with sharing it with their family members. Shiro can’t say that he’s familiar with the holiday, or of its roots, fought over by many religions over who has the right to claim the holiday. He’s from the East, where these celebrations mean nothing to them—rather, the time that he comes from, the idea of Christmas would be too foreign and wouldn't exactly fit in with the culture of the time.

European influence hadn’t stepped foot into his country when he had been human.

So, Shiro is curious to know what a person may be trying to hide from during the holiday.

He’s in some secluded area, a street that winds off from the main road that leads down a collection of alleys, darkened with so few kerosene light fixtures giving a futile effort to fight against the darkness surrounding them. There’s the faraway taps of animals that linger along the edges of buildings, rodents that look through garbage for leftover grain and other nocturnal animals that scour for the scraps of the day’s past. 

In the distance, there is a sound, faint enough for Shiro’s attention to be diverted. As he walks through the secluded paths of back alleyways, all of them no different from each other: poorly-lit with trash that lines the walls, the accompanying smell of oil and smoke, and unorganized crates and boxes that are stacked against the walls. He smells the rank of poor hygiene, where homeless humans must have spent time, though it’s faded with time. Unlike the main roads in the city, alleys aren’t given the same attention or care to make sure people can see through them.

It’s a perfect spot for people to commit atrocious acts.

But it’s not difficult for Shiro’s vampiric senses to see through. Shiro comes closer, allowing his steps to lighten to not disturb whatever is creating the sound.

Shiro smells it first: blood of a horse and a sick human, although the horse’s blood is faint, it’s still enough for Shiro to raise an eyebrow at. Horse thievery isn’t uncommon in this age of humans, and there are laws that are quick to condemn and punish any person caught trying to steal a horse. It’s more common to use the cover of night to take a horse from a ranch out in the plains and deserts, but it’s not something practiced as much in cities. There are sheriffs, posted anywhere they pleased and often hid his badge. There’s the possibility of being caught by a regular person, as well as the trouble of escaping from the city with that horse. It’s too much of an effort to take a horse from the city, but that doesn’t stop some of the more daring people from it.

He is curious why someone thought injuring the horse would do them any good. Perhaps branding so it can't be claimed as anyone but themselves? A scar on a horse would be an easy way to identify a certain man's horse.

What he also smells is a human’s blood, freshly spilled if the scent has anything to do with it. It also has a sickly tone to it. Shiro may be immune to human illnesses and their effects, but he can still taste the illness in their blood. It doesn’t make for the most pleasant of meals, but a vampire is always happy to receive blood regardless of the health of the human it came from.

From what the vampire can gather, a sickly human must have had their horse stolen and was injured trying to protect their horse. 

Shiro continues down the alley, the smell of blood becoming stronger until Shiro comes across the scene.

There is a pale and dirtied man lying on his side and against the brick siding of a building. His hand is holding his stomach as blood squeezes through his fingers to collect on the ground below him. His hair is messy and dirtied with sweat, black as the night sky, hides much of his face. He can hear a rasp in the man’s chest, knowing it must be consumption that the man has. He doesn’t have a lot of time, judging by the clammy look of his skin. He must have been stabbed not even half an hour ago. 

Shiro also notices that the man’s features don’t quite match the white man’s look. It’s immediately noticeable to Shiro because the man shares similar features to his own, and immediately becomes curious about the man’s origins. Just like with the Africans that were recently freed, there are calls from the white men to restrict Shiro's own people over fears of economic opportunities that could be taken away from them. Shiro finds it to be despicable, already at odds with the belief of lawful discrimination, but he can’t fight an entire country and hope to change their views.

It’s not uncommon to see Chinese immigrants in the West these days, although there’s resentment from the white men and calls to limit their travels to America over work opportunities. Many have tried to go to the mines on the West coast, some have even taken to joining ranches and cattle farms, some of them even making their own ranches. However, Shiro has read the newspapers, all reporting of tensions and clashes between white men and the Chinese people that have immigrated. It’s a nasty tension, one Shiro has no interest in joining regardless of how he feels about why it’s happening.

Instead, Shiro crouches down, looking at the man, knowing he’s watching the life drain from him. 

Shiro tries to assess the situation: he doesn't want to leave the man to rot in his own filth and die in such an undignified way, but he also doesn’t know if a human would be open to a vampire’s intervention. He begins to reach out a hand, to lay it on the man’s shoulder when the man looks at him. 

If it were some other time, maybe many years ago in his past, Shiro would find no hesitation to make this man his prey, would savor the taste of his blood across his tongue. The man’s features are very attractive, appealing to Shiro’s taste, one that has put him at odds with the western world's religious reach, but at the same time, let him fit in with the upper society’s dabbles; it has especially let him fit in with the French monarchy when he had traveled there mere decades ago. It is sinful, priests have claimed as they kept their own desires hidden from the eye of their own subjects and behind the walls of the Church, but Shiro, he’s a different kind of being.

The beliefs of man are certainly unable to be applied to one that hasn’t been among the living for hundreds of years.

Just as Shiro’s hand gets closer to the man, those eyes open, revealing a dull glaze over them. The man might be succumbing to his injuries, and if not that, then it will be the germs because of the miasma around him will get into his wound and turn it deadly. The man just looks at him, eyes slitted, raising no further.

He takes a breath, and a voice, deeper than Shiro expected, says, “I have no money for you to take.” It's raspy, weak from the consumption and the pain of the wound. 

Shiro looks at him, eyes flicking towards the wound before to his face. The smell of fresh blood, regardless of the sickness, tugs at his senses. “That wasn’t my intention.” Shiro’s hand pulls back, hand clenching before he rests his arms against his thighs. “You are injured, I was merely concerned.”

The man breathes, shaky, and obviously in pain. His eyes close. “Have you…” and he trails off for a moment, visibly struggling through the pain of his wound, “... have you seen a horse around?”

“I’ve not seen a horse.”

“Ah,” and the man opens his eyes, looking at the ground instead, “she must be long gone by now.”

“If I may ask, what happened?”

The man doesn’t answer for a moment, taking in slow, labored breaths in an attempt to control the pain. 

“Horse thieves. Too many...” and he breathes in slowly before he coughs, body shaking at the pain that must be wracking his frame. Shiro feels sympathy for him and wishes he could do something to help quell the pain. It takes a moment, and Shiro can see blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, telling him the wound is now serious. 

He tries again with, “Too many to fight. One got me in the side, and I couldn’t… fight no more after that. She was… she was the best horse a man could’a asked for, and now,” the pale-skinned man closes his eyes again, “she’s gone.”

Shiro knows it must be humiliating for him to see the water starting to line his lashes so he doesn’t mention it.

“Never thought—” he coughs and Shiro can see flecks of blood in it, “—I’d die here in some alley. Always thought… the factory would get me in the end.”

With a genuine emotion in Shiro’s chest, he thinks about his next words. He tastes them, trying to test out their tone before he sets them loose. He’s tried in his life to help others, whether it be offering them refuge in his home, helping slaves escape when he came across them in the middle of nowhere, even paying for funerals and giving them the best casket money could offer. He’s been alive for so long that he’s had time to build wealth, to create connections in the world that will give him the means of living amongst humans. It would be foolish to not secure wealth for his future, seeing how times have changed, where his nomadic life couldn’t fit into the society of today as it did back in his home country in the East. 

Now that the man mentions it, Shiro can see the smear of smoke on his fingers and face, the dirtied clothes that smells of metal, stained with dirt and worn down. This man must have been leaving the factory with how strong the scent is, but must live somewhere further away if he uses a horse to travel to and from where he lives. The older man is surprised that this man doesn’t live in the housing closer to the factory, although he supposes that because it’s generally crowded and the people who own those places charge outrageous prices to live there.

Shiro thinks on it. This man, lying sullied and disgraced, doesn’t deserve what’s been given to him. Shiro’s met many humans in life that did not deserve their fate. Whether it be from the wars he has witnessed through his life, from starvation that their own countries had ignored, even to the poor, unfortunate people that fell for his need of blood—none of them truly deserved what befell them. 

This time, Shiro does reach an arm out, hand settling on the other man’s shoulder. 

“I may be able to help you, if you choose to trust me.”

The man stares at him, and Shiro can’t tell what is going on behind those peculiarly-colored eyes. His mouth opens before closing, eyes narrowing. 

“You don’t look—” he coughs, wincing in the process, “—like a doctor.”

“I may not look like much, but I can help you. If you don’t want it, you don’t have to take it.”

“We just met,” and he spits, blood coloring it even more, “and you're puttin' words in my mouth already?”

A smile tries to pull at the corner of Shiro’s mouth. Perhaps this man was more lively when he wasn’t bleeding out on the ground of some darkened, dirty alley.

“Must be better than a doctor,” he pauses as his eyes threaten to fall shut, the parlor of his skin a becoming a sickly color the longer times goes on, “if you reckon you can fix me.”

Shiro smiles, a gentle thing across his lips. He nods before saying, “This will be hurt, I apologize.”

Shiro moves his hands, leaning forward to place them underneath the man that lies prone on the ground. He can see those eyes, glazed with pain and almost shut, follow his movements. There is a sharpness behind them that Shiro finds genuine interest in wanting to know where it came from. This is no mere boy who has no life experience, there must be cunning and intelligence to earn him that look.

“What’s your name?” If Shiro is to do what he plans, he’d like to know the name of the gentleman he’s going to try to help.

“Name’s Keith.”

“Nice to meet you, Keith. I’m Shiro.”

Keith regards him with a look., as best as he can through the pain of his wound. “Don’t sound American.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

Keith looks at him, studying him openly. “You one of… those Chinese that people are makin’ a fuss about?”

Shiro thinks on what that means for a moment before, “You could say where I’m from, they’re my neighbors.”

Before Shiro goes any further, he gets an idea. He leans back, reaching for the cloth he keeps in his pocket. He gathers it in his hand and leans forward. His hand hovers over the wound and pushes Keith’s hands out of the way and applies it to the wound. It begins to soak with blood as soon as it touches the wound. Shiro doesn’t know what other injuries Keith has, but he knows there isn’t much time. Keith may not survive beyond an hour, even with the cloth placed over his wound to help stop the flow of blood.

Shiro gets a grip on Keith before he rises. A gasp tears from Keith’s throat, his muscles locking up before a guttural sound releases, obviously in pain. He’s trying to compose himself, trying to keep himself from reacting too much but it doesn’t quite work. A pang of empathy passes through Shiro. Even though he’s immortal, he’s still susceptible to the pain of injuries. He’s been stabbed a few times before, and it doesn’t matter how strong or powerful he gets, it still hurts to have a knife in his guts.

It seems like it’s too much because Keith seems to lose consciousness, muscles relaxing as Shiro shifts him in his arms. He maneuvers Keith to where he’s able to reach one arm around Keith to be able to touch where the cloth is over the wound, thankfully on the side of his body that’s not pressed against Shiro. He places his hand on it, applying pressure to keep it there.

From where it’s at, Shiro can't tell if it hit his stomach. The knife could have cut him in a way that is threatening to spill his organs out and Keith was just holding them in. He’s not a doctor, far from it, but he’s seen enough wounds from war, on and off the battlefield, to know a little something about the seriousness of certain injuries.

With Keith this close to him, Shiro can smell the sickness in Keith’s breath. It’s not overwhelming, but Shiro can tell it’ll take over his lungs soon with how weak Keith it. He’s smelled enough of people with consumption to know its scent. He feels sorry for this man, that if it were not for this knife would in his side, or potential other wounds, Keith would succumb to this sickness in a matter of weeks. The factory isn’t an ideal place to be, apart from the smoke and near constant accidents that many inspectors are paid off to forget about, it is a breeding ground for miasma to get around uninhibited.

Shiro steps away from the wall, adjusting his grip so that his hand doesn’t leave the wound but knowing that he has limited time to do this, he begins to walk. The man in his arms moves again, seeming to regain his bearings but doesn’t move beyond twitching from the pain. 

The vampire knows he needs to move fast or all his efforts will have been for naught, and begins to think of all the shortcuts he knows back to his home.

Just Shiro is setting out, there’s a noise from further down the alley. His senses immediately lock onto the sound, eyes peering into the darkness. Ash-colored eyes narrow when he finds out the scent.

It’s another vampire. Shiro internally berates himself because of course it would be another vampire. Keith has been bleeding and the scent of fresh blood is alluring to a vampire, especially to ones that haven’t aged past fifty years when their bloodlust tends to get the better of them. In his effort to help the man in his arms, he had forgotten about other vampires being attracted to the scent of spilled blood that would lure them into the alley.

Shiro may be old and has power and control beyond what most vampires would dream of, it would still be a hassle to fight a dozen vampires that are all vying for the human in his arms.

However, the vampire before him pauses, looking at him and at the human in his arms, nose wrinkling.

“Hm, consumption. Never knew you would want to savor sickly blood, but prey is prey, I suppose.”

He knows that voice anywhere.

It’s not just any vampire, it’s one that Shiro knows too well.

Shiro’s voice is steel when he asks, “What do you want, Sendak?”

Sendak.

Sendak was a hulking brute of a vampire, tall and proud with his shoulders squared and head held high, and an ever-present smirk on his face wherever he went. His left eye had been injured in a battle long before Shiro had ever met him, having been replaced by a wooden one that lacked a pupil; it only serves to make him more intimidating. Sendak found joy in exerting his impressive but brutish vampiric strength over others, believing the strong earned their place to rule over others beneath them. His name is infamous among vampires, with many choosing to avoid him. There is a confidence about Sendak that Shiro hates to admit that is somewhat admirable. 

Once upon a time, Sendak had tried to convince Shiro to join him and the Galra, a fledgling vampire gang that was rising underneath the city and spreading to other cities. He had said vampires have a rightful place to rule the humans, who were inferior and only was around to be their own cattle. Sendak’s words were foul to him, and Shiro turned him down, an act that Sendak continues to take offense to even today.

A cruel smirk pulls at the corners of Sendak’s mouth. “Why do you think I always want something? Can’t I visit an old friend?”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. “We are _not_ friends.”

A show of teeth, fangs gleaming. “But we are the same, you and I. Why not make it easier and join me for the night? It would be like old times, don't you think?” Sendak takes slow steps toward Shiro, stopping just a few feet away. “Stop denying your nature and take part in the hunt. Stop denying yourself, for once. A vampire has to feed.”

Shiro’s jaw clenches before he forces himself to relax. 

“I apologize, but I’m going to have to say no.”

Sendak eyes Keith in his arms and Shiro reflexively shifts his hold. Sendak chuckles.

“Oh, I see. You want to savor this prey?” There's a leer that Sendak takes that Shiro doesn't like.

“You know nothing about what I’m doing.”

Sendak tsks, obviously disregarding what Shiro had said. “You hold a sickly boy as if it were precious. Any vampire worth his salt wouldn’t abandon such easy blood.”

“What I do is none of your concern.”

Shiro turns from him, knowing that showing his back to Sendak is a dangerous one, but he has no energy to deal with the other vampire. He’s not sure how old Sendak is, so he's never sure how powerful Sendak is. What he does know is that Sendak knows Shiro could be a formidable opponent if he dares to try to attack him. It had been his mission to try to recruit Shiro, having noticed Shiro's power, and he knows that Sendak still holds out for it after all these years, wanting Shiro's power to be on his side when a time of need arises. It's probably the only reason why Sendak hasn't tried to kill Shiro like many other vampires he finds to be against his cause.

“Oh, but it is, _Shirogane_.”

Shiro stops, feeling the annoyance budding beneath his skin. Sendak butchering the pronunciation of his name never fails to irk him.

“Perhaps you want your own blood supply. You and I both know it’s now illegal to own slaves, but doesn’t that only apply to _humans_? Surely a law made by humans doesn't apply to vampires, should it?”

Shiro doesn’t want to hear what Sendak is implying. 

“Perhaps,” and Sendak’s voice becomes lecherous in a way that Shiro hates, “you wish to have your own personal slaves, to provide you with everything you want—”

“ _Enough_ , Sendak. It’s none of your concern.”

Sendak scoffs, arms crossing. “You can believe all you want that you’re different, but you still need blood like the rest of us.”

Shiro doesn’t answer. 

“Hm, it is of no matter to me. That thing is sick and injured, and will be a corpse soon. Do with it as you wish.”

Sendak turns around, preparing to leave but stops, and casts a look over his shoulder. “You can think you're different than the rest of our kind, but you know as well as I do, you need blood. Stop fooling yourself into thinking you're different. At the end of the day, you're just hiding the monster you truly are,” and Sendak grins, letting his fangs show. “No amount of niceties will change that. I suggest you learn to accept it and embrace what you are. We have no place among these foolish mortals. Pretending will get you nowhere.”

There’s a tension inside Shiro’s body that loosens with Sendak’s departure. No matter how hard Sendak tries, Shiro has had years of change behind him that leave him immune to such words. Maybe if he were less than a hundred years old, he'd fall victim to these words, ready to drag his nails across Sendak's face and take out his other eye. However, what Sendak thinks of him, it is of no consequence to the vampire.

Shiro peers down at the boy in his arms, looking at the cloth that is now almost soaked with blood, cursing himself for allowing Sendak to distract him. The parlor of Keith’s lips are pale, almost as though they were bloodless, and tells Shiro the severity of the situation.

He’s unsure if Keith was conscious enough to understand the exchange between him and Sendak but he doesn’t have time to check. With his purpose in sight, Shiro takes to the rooftops of the city, avoiding public roads and alleyways, and quickly moves unhindered. 

\--

It’s the edge of the city where Shiro settles.

Shiro has had years to gather wealth, amassing through several different channels. When a vampire has been alive for so long, they understand that times change, humans develop different acceptable ways to live, and society as a whole grows to expect different things. Money has always been an essential item to humans, but it’s really become important in the last two hundred years. Shiro can’t live his entire life as a nomadic vampire, not like he did years ago, not when humans are spreading through the land and populating it, leaving his previous ways to be insufficient. He can’t journey the countryside anymore, he can’t wander through dense forests and woods, he can’t stroll along warm sands and cracked dirt—humans are utilizing the earth in ways they never would have dreamed hundreds of years ago.

Shiro’s home lies on the very edge of the city, far enough to have privacy and very few humans wanting to make the journey away from the factories. It’s enough distance from the factories of the city to dilute the smell of them, but not far enough to truly stop the smell of their smoke. 

It’s a two story [Victorian-styled](https://www.houzz.com/magazine/my-houzz-step-inside-a-grand-1800s-victorian-stsetivw-vs~13423911) house that speaks of a fine wealth. The doors are made from a polished Rosewood, an expensive item Shiro had no problem purchasing. The exterior is clean and sleek, crafted from yellow pine and Cyprus, trying to implement the Victorian style of Europe and a modern American design. Shiro has learned he has a bit of a taste for exterior design.

Shiro has privacy here, a luxury only the wealthy seem to have these days. He’s passed by so many tenements being built through the city. Cramped and almost overflowing with people, the stench of miasma and dirt so pungent that Shiro can’t help but wrinkle his nose. They’re living so packed together that it’s a wonder that no inspector has tried to shut down those places.

(Shiro knows why, has seen enough inspectors accepting money in a back corner away from the factories, smiles on their faces and a thank you for the money. He makes sure to see them when his stomach wants a taste of something fresh.)

Shiro carries Keith through the house, through arching halls of bright, intricate green wallpaper and down lengthy and luxuries carpets. He moves upstairs and into one of the guest rooms.

Shiro moves until he’s standing on front of the bed, large and piled with thick comforters and blankets, setting Keith down on the middle and kneeling in front of it.

“Sir Shirogane?” comes a questioning voice from the doorway. He peers back to see one of the maids, one named Adaline, standing there. Her figure speaks of a matured and older woman, with lines beginning to crease the corners of her eyes but at an age seen to be unfit for child-bearing. She continues with, “Wouldn't it be wise to fetch a doctor?”

“Don’t worry,” and Shiro turns his head back to the pale man before him, “I have this under control. It is a result from seeing enough war to know how to treat without a doctor.”

Before Adaline can say anything further, Shiro says, “Please do not disturb me regardless of what you here. His wounds are severe, and will be in pain.”

“Yes, Sir Shirogane. I will inform the others.”

He almost voices his thoughts on waking the staff, knowing many of them had celebrated their Christmas Eve and were joyfully waiting for the next day. He has no problem with his staff wanting to celebrate their human holidays, and sure, these traditions celebrated were not present when he had been human, so it intrigues him to see what humans celebrate and see how different it is than when he had been human.

He feels a little guilty to wake them before their celebrations but he needs them to be informed before they become too curious.

Shiro may not live with anyone, and while it leads people to believe that he has no interest in taking a proper wife, or have an intent toward children, he allows his maids and servants to live with him. He’s not a fan of how many wealthy let their housekeepers live in squalor in their own homes, subjected to a rickety and thin staircase inside their basements. Most housekeepers he has seen live with thin and dirtied maid clothes that are in desperate need of a new change of clothes. Yet, many of their needs go ignored by their masters and mistresses, who watch with contempt for the lower classes from their high-seated perches.

He has ten maids and servants, and allows them to stay in his home, in a nice room with a large bed, enough to fit three people. His staff is human, a peculiar observation for vampires who know what his nature is and is certain to raise questions about how he is able to live with humans without daring to drink their blood. Shiro has had many years to hone his control and restraint that he finds no interest in using his staff for a personal blood supply. 

He is sure to give them money to feed themselves and provide a warm bath for them. All he asks is for their attention to his home and nothing more.

He knows of vampires that keep human staff to feed themselves whenever they desire. Some vampires treat them like slaves, as though it hadn’t been abolished merely four years previously. Shiro despises how some still cling to slavery, having drained and killed many African slaves, counting on the law of the master’s absolute right over to treat them like cattle. Shiro had even heard of voyages fully financed by very wealthy vampires to bring them slaves, a kind of slave blood trade that had become lucrative to those that afforded it.

How disgusting, Shiro would think.

It’s in a past far behind Shiro’s back but he can recall those days as a prisoner, shackled in a cell away from sunlight, with hair unkempt and wild as he stared at his would-be killers, long before they decided he would be a prime thing to make into a vampire.

Shiro shakes his head, trying to swallow down memories that try to rise in his throat.

Shiro looks over Keith, who’s deathly still, his chest barely rising, and he knows he needs to act now. He rises, pushing up onto the bed and maneuvers himself and Keith to where Keith is draped across his lap. He supports the other man’s back, braced against his arm as he begins to unbutton Keith’s collar. His eyes open, just a sliver, peering at Shiro and what he’s doing.

“Didn’t know,” Keith inhales, his voice labored as though he has been sprinting through the city, “that this was… apart of helping me.”

“I wish for you to be comfortable, as awful as this will be.”

“Must be better… than the doctors.”

“You would be given morphine for their treatment instead. Wouldn’t that be preferable?”

“And not… be in the presence… of a respectable man… such as yourself? No thanks.” Keith has to take more breaths, the toll of the injury and sickness eating away at him.

Shiro likes Keith’s spirit, and as dampened as it is, he can’t help but admit that he’s curious to see what kind of quick comebacks Keith could have if he makes it through this.

That is truly sobering thought.

It’s not guaranteed that a human will become a vampire. It doesn’t matter how strong a vampire is, or how potent their blood could be, or how much they correctly followed the steps of turning someone, turning a human to a vampire still has a chance of failing. Shiro has heard rumors of strong and powerful vampires failing to turn lovers, friends, even family members, and how much agony that had caused them. If Keith can’t be turned, Shiro finds himself to actually be upset at the mere idea of Keith dying.

A wasted life is something Shiro wishes to avoid.

No vampire truly knows why or how a turning could be successful or not. Many do not speak of their failed turnings for it will surely sew doubt in the minds of vampires around them of their power, and create rumors of their impotency. It will surely make other vampires believe that their power should be doubted, even challenged. For what vampire will want to respect another, especially an elder vampire, when they can’t even successfully turn a weak and fragile human?

Shiro traces his eyes down Keith’s now exposed neck, looking for the smallest sign of an artery and raises his hand to it. He places two fingers underneath Keith’s chin, look for the beat of blood. Once he finds it, he follows it until he’s sure that he has located Keith’s lifeline. 

Before Shiro moves in, he speaks in a low and grave tone, “I must warn you: none of this will be pleasant. It will hurt a lot. Do you still wish for my help?”

Keith’s eyes, which had closed during the jostle, opens, glazing over from blood loss, look at Shiro. His breathing is still labored and getting heavier by the moment, but he still tries to answer.

“What else—” and he coughs, a weak sound from his throat, as Shiro had almost forgotten that Keith had the consumption, “is there for me? To die from consumption? To die in a… factory that will—” he stops for a moment to cough again, his voice now hoarser as he continues with, “cover up my death?”

Shiro can’t answer. He knows nothing of where Keith had come from, what his life is like beyond the noise and unfortunate work in the factory. Keith could be a criminal, a petty thief, or someone so important that his death could cause shock and sadness to be reported in the newspapers. None of that matters, not when Keith is dying from a fatal wound and a sickness that can’t be cured.

“Then do it.”

Shiro looks at him for a moment, metallic eyes looking for any reason for doubt regardless of the fact that he wishes to save Keith’s life. It’s one thing to be a vampire, but to live the rest of eternity with regret and hatred of the person who turned them, is something that the larger man wishes to not subject Keith to.

“Very well,” Shiro says after a moment.

He leans forward, mouth descending until it hovers just over the pale skin of Keith’s neck. He can feel his breath reflecting off Keith’s skin, and a kind of anxiety settles into the pit of his stomach. He can’t deny that he’s nervous, admitting to no one but himself that he has never had the urge to turn someone in all of his five hundred years alive that he has no idea if he’s going to succeed. He also can’t deny his interest in Keith's blood, having become almost indifferent to it for so long, has returned in full force. His fangs itch with the desire to bury themselves into the soft and supple skin of the man’s neck.

“I can’t say that you may live through this,” rolls of his tongue in deep tone, “but if you do, then the journey after will be painful.”

Before Keith has a chance to retort, something that Shiro would’ve actually liked to hear, finding himself becoming fond of Keith’s sharp wit, he bites down, fangs piercing the skin and settling deep into Keith’s flesh.

Shiro works fast and drains the blood as quickly as he can. It pools in his mouth and leaks out the side, leaking in large amounts down Keith’s skin and all over their clothes. There’s a hitch in Keith’s breath and his body tensing at the initial break of skin before the pain of it all kicks in. His whole body jolts, his eyes widen, and his mouth opens to let out a horse yell. His throat gurgles, trying to breath beyond the force of the bite of Shiro’s mouth that is surely suffocating him. Shiro bites down harder, trying to get as much blood drained from Keith as possible.

Keith's body, though weak from blood loss and sickness, spasms, arms reaching up to try to pull at Shiro. He’s weak already and all his limbs can do it beat unsuccessfully at Shiro. The vampire doubles down, biting harder that it must be choking Keith of air. A fresh wave of blood pours into his mouth with faster ease. 

As much as Shiro can taste the sickness in Keith’s blood, making it bitter, as well as the smoke of factories that has come to be a permanent feature in the blood he drinks, he’s enticed by the freshness of hot blood. More of it’s getting all over his clothes and bedding than is going into his mouth, but he just works through it.

There’s a primal part of Shiro that basks in this, in the mess of blood all around him, the weak struggles of prey as they fight for their life, and the utter display of dominance that he exerts over the situation. It’s a part of Shiro that had been absent since the beginning of his life as a vampire, when he was a messy and hungry thing without anything to cling to. His formative years were ruled by the desire for blood regardless of where it came from. It’s a time he carries with him in locked away shame that he wishes could have been different. 

But with so much blood going into his body, his thoughts become subdued under the feeling of being able to engorge himself. Keith’s struggles have ceased. His breathing is shallow and quick and he’s mostly unresponsive.

Shiro hasn’t been able to feast on blood like this for so many years, choosing to limit himself in an effort to prevent himself from going too far. With Keith, he’s given the opportunity to take as much as he wishes and it alights his vampiric senses in a way they haven’t been for so long. He thinks he can hear the echo of Sendak's words, but it barely registers in his mind as it's preoccupied with with the blood on his tongue and along his mouth.

By the time he pulls back, Keith is nothing more than a corpse.

Shiro wastes no time, raising his arm that doesn’t support Keith’s body and quickly drags one of his fangs across his wrist, a twitch echoing through his body at the pain of slicing his own skin open. He looks to Keith’s face, frozen in time with death over it, eyes sightless and mouth hung agape. He tries to not pay attention to it, not wanting to think about this being a permanent look to Keith.

The turning of a human is crucial after they have died. There is a very small window of time after draining a human that has to be used to complete a turning. Shiro quickly pushes his wrist against Keith’s mouth, wedging it between the lips and clenching his hand, trying to force more of his blood down Keith’s throat before his body heals the cut. The flow begins to stop and Shiro repeats slicing his wrist with his fangs and putting it back to Keith’s mouth.

“Come on,” is low and urgent from Shiro, “come on. Drink, damn you.”

He keeps repeating it, watching as the blood begins to leak over a corner of Keith’s mouth, smearing along his lips as Shiro’s wrist presses against those lips. They cover the pale pink death of his mouth with a dark ruby and Shiro has the urge to lick at away.

His wrist is protesting his constant slashing as his vampiric power keeps trying to mend the broken skin, but he needs Keith to come back. That feeling of disappointment is growing inside his chest, murky and dissatisfied as the the grim reality of it starts to dawn on him. 

Shiro’s wrist now hovers over Keith’s mouth, his wrist and hand smeared with his own blood and dripping onto Keith’s face, also with blood all over his face, his eyes still unblinking and staring at nothing. Shiro’s jaw clenches, his chest expands as he finally realizes that this is a hopeless situation.

He supposes that because this is his first time trying to turn someone that it wouldn’t go as well as he was hoping for it to be. Perhaps he should have asked about how it is to turn a human, what he should and shouldn’t do. Maybe Shiro should have practiced on someone else before finding a human that he wanted to save. 

Reality is crushing for him, a reminder that his efforts are still one of harm. There he is, his mouth having gorged on human blood, his body satisfied in ways he hasn’t felt in so long, in exchange for another life, a victim of his vampiric lifestyle. A rough sigh leaves the dark-haired vampire’s mouth, disappointed in the loss of Keith’s life and was unable to help him, only prolonging his suffering at the end of his life. It’s a bitter taste on the back of his throat, knowing that he just gave Keith the most unimaginable pain before his life ended.

Just as Shiro begins to pull his wrist away, the body in his arms jolts violently, and one of the most agonized screams Shiro has ever heard tears forth from Keith’s lungs. Keith springs forth, his eyes wide, his chest heaving, body beginning to convulse.

Shiro is taken aback by the drastic change of the situation.

Keith was just unmoving and becoming cold in his arms. Now, he’s flailing, full of life and _alive_.

There’s a tremendous weight that lifts off Shiro’s chest.

He can breathe again.

Shiro immediately wraps himself around Keith to stop the flailing, trying to keep Keith from unintentionally hurting himself, knowing these moments will be some of the most painful, if not the most, moments that he’ll ever have to experience.

Shiro remembers it, almost like yesterday, the feeling of turning into a vampire. There are no words to describe the agony and pain of the body becoming aware of the throes of death. The feeling of everything inside the body grinding to a sudden halt and collapsing in on itself as it shudders through the feeling of dying. There’s an intensity to it, one that the body can’t process correctly as it shouldn’t be doing that at all.

The body is supposed to be dying and ready to rot into the ground but the process is stopped so abruptly and viciously that a human has no idea how to deal with it, wholly unprepared to understand how and why it’s happening. All the while, their soul is trapped in their body to experience all of the pain of their body failing. It’s the feeling of the organs shutting down, the mind having to experience itself tearing apart, all awareness suddenly boiling down to that point.

The vampire knows it will pass but to the person experiencing it, it can feel like ages before one can resurface above.

Shiro’s knows this is the worst part of becoming a vampire.

Then will come the days after, where the body is trying to adjust and cope with death, knowing everything is shutting down and unable to understand it. The body wasn’t meant to function like that, isn’t supposed to know what it feels like to be aware of your own death and continue after, and therefore, is unable to cope with it. The sickness and nausea that follows after as the body continues to die and stop all functions, is enough to leave a new vampire vulnerable and weak, at their most fragile and easily overpowered. It’s during this time that a new vampire is akin to an infant, relying heavily on their sire to take care of them. 

Many nights did Shiro spend throwing up his own blood, among other bodily fluids he had no idea what they were, body expelling anything that was trying to die in him. He had been so sick that he was unable to move much during those days.

(His own circumstances were different, he’ll remind himself. He’s not in a dark place, weak and vulnerable with all his soft parts exposed, surrounded by beasts in their own ways, hungry for everything they could get their jaws around.)

Shiro tries to say anything encouraging to the newly-turned vampire in his arms, beginning to rock back and forth in an attempt to soothe the hysterical man. He knows it to be futile as Keith is too preoccupied with experiencing his own death. His body continues to convulse, his voice becoming hoarse, and Shiro can only continue to hold him through his transformation.

Keith’s newly-found strength dissipates fast since body doesn’t have enough blood in it to fuel his newfound strength, becoming only a series of twitches. Shiro removes one arm from around Keith and places his wrist back to Keith’s mouth, trying to encourage the new vampire to feed. Not only does a vampire have to experience their own death, they’re also blindsided by the hunger for blood. It’s a hunger that one has never experienced before, on such an intense level that it can be overwhelming for another.

It takes some prodding but Keith eventually latches on and Shiro winces at the intensity of the bite, eager and unrestrained, lacking any poise that a vampire learns. His nails have elongated, digging into the older vampire’s arm, piercing the skin for blood to run down his arm. Blood smears along Shiro’s arm, more along Keith’s face and hands, messy and more than likely going to stain both his and Keith’s clothes. He makes a note to discard the clothes lest he wish for law enforcement to think it to be in their interest to pay him a visit for his suspiciously bloody clothes.

There’s a feeling that begins to unfurl within his chest that is responding to the agonized noises that Keith made. It draws forth something that Shiro hadn’t felt before. He doesn’t know anything about the feelings a sire has for their newly turned fledglings, he’s never thought to ask another vampire about it. He’d been too disinterested, never having a thought about turning someone, and Shiro is left trying to navigate a completely new world. 

He watches the transformation that Keith is going through. He sees the smaller vampire’s ears begin to elongate; the fangs that have developed that are buried in Shiro’s skin. It’s a moment before Shiro takes his wrist away, not wanting to overwhelm Keith, but knowing that he can’t let Keith try to drain him. Keith’s hands try to keep the older vampire’s wrist to his mouth, his attempts feeble with limbs weakened from death and hunger. He’s left gasping in Shiro’s arms, making pained and hurt sounds, still trying to make sense of what’s happening to his body.

“Shhh, it’s okay, Keith,” is a soothing sound from Shiro’s mouth, curling tighter around Keith, pressing him against Shiro’s chest. “It’s going to be okay, we’ll get through this. It’s gonna be alright.”

He curls around Keith, continuing to whisper words of encouragement. Whether or not Keith is able to understand them is unknown but Shiro doesn’t stop. Keith begins to settle, his breathing now raspy and a little subdued. His body is starting to go lax, his struggles quelling as his eyes begin to droop. His body must be growing weak as it continues to die and Keith's newfound strength completely leaves him. There are tears that have fallen from his eyes, mixing with the blood on his face. Shiro tries to wipe them away as he says, “It’s okay, Keith. You did well, I’m so proud of you.”

The smaller vampire must be losing consciousness, the process of being turned into a vampire taking its toll on him. Shiro pulls back to study Keith’s face and deems it to be okay to move. 

He must be rid of Keith’s clothes as they’re worn down and frayed, not to mention covered in blood. He doesn’t really have anything in Keith’s size and makes a note to have a tailor fit him for new clothes. 

Keith’s movements have become almost nothing except for the occasional twitch the slow rise of his chest. He’s barely conscious and easily pliable now that Shiro doesn’t think he could cause himself harm. With one last look at the younger vampire, he rises to his feet and moves toward one of the dressers in the room. He begins to search through it for clothes that could be something close to Keith’s size. It would be unbecoming of him to let Keith stay in his own clothes.

Keith is unable to provide him assistance in changing his clothes, so he must manhandle Keith into the positions he needs to change him. He looks at the sheets and blankets underneath, soiled and stained with blood, and decides that his new guest cannot spend the night in rumpled and dirtied sheets. 

For a moment, Shiro looks back at Keith. There’s an emotion inside his chest that’s responding to Keith. It’s a feeling the older vampire has never experienced, and he’s not sure if it’s the feeling of a first-time sire, but he’s unsure how to process it. He’s not an emotionless stump of a vampire, he has his own hopes and dreams, his own set of beliefs and feelings toward a number of subjects, but he’s never felt how it is to create new life.

Perhaps it’s different because while Shiro has offered to help and save people through his time, he’d never thought of turning them into a vampire. It doesn’t help that all of them had turned him down, whether bleeding out on a battlefield that Shiro had walked to assess the casualties of man, or some peasant that toiled in their own filth that reasoned God chose them to suffer the Black Death for their sins. His offer of help often went rejected but it never stopped him from wishing to give them kindness, a peculiar trait for a vampire. He was supposed to hunt humans, to take their blood, not offer some form of salvation from their mortal troubles.

Sendak had said it to be a wasted mercy on humans that deserved nothing from him, other vampires had commented on the peculiarness of it, had even thought him to be weak. 

Shiro finds a few pieces of clothes that he can use: a simple night shirt and long, loose-fitting pants, and begins to divest Keith of his clothes. When he finishes, he picks Keith up and heads toward the door. When he opens it, there is Adaline standing outside, obviously waiting for his next commands. 

“My apologies for the lateness of the hour, and the noise. Please assure the staff that everything is in order.”

“It is alright, Sir. May I take care of the room for you?”

“Please. I will also need one of the guest rooms prepared for our new guest.”

She halts, her thoughts of curiosity reflected in her eyes. 

“It’s not often we have a guest here, Sir. Do you need anything special prepared?”

Shiro shakes his head, hair moving into his face. “Thank you, but there’s no need for it. Just a simple bed will do.”

Adaline bows and says, “I will prepare the bed. Does our guest need a meal prepared?”

“That’s not necessary, but he will appreciate the gesture.”

He looks to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, seeing that it’s an hour past midnight. Something resembling a melancholic smile graces Shiro’s lips as he realizes with irony why the time resonates.

_Merry Christmas, your gift on this day is a new life, freed of your old one,_ he would say to Keith if he was coherent and awake.

\--

Shiro notes that while it's Christmas, although early, it’s a Christmas that he’s not entirely sure is going to go down in Keith’s history as something good, where his life had been saved, or if it’s going to be something that Keith regrets for the rest of his life.

Keith doesn’t wake up for several more hours. When he does wake, he becomes sick all over the bed and floor almost immediately after. He sweats through it, his chest heaving as his body shakes through the aftereffects of his death.

Shiro can do nothing more than tend to him, having the maids change the sheets and provide him a hot bath. He feeds Keith through the process, dismayed at Keith throwing up most of it as his body is trying to learn to cope. The older vampire doesn’t know if this is a good sign or not, but he continues to try to get Keith to feed. His wrist aches from how much he’s letting Keith feed from it but he’d much rather Keith throw up on his wrist and able to clean it up there than let Keith try to drink from his neck and have it all come back all over his neck and chest, and subsequently, his clothes.

Keith barely does anything other than groan and cry through the ordeal. Shiro understands that it’s a painful process and he doesn’t want to force Keith to do anything, not in this weakened state, but he’s anxious about not knowing if he’s doing this right. Of course he should be nervous, it’s his first time siring anyone, and most likely, doesn’t have all the answers. He still wishes to have someone around to talk to about this, but he can’t afford to leave Keith’s side.

Instead, he watches over Keith as the maids almost constantly change his sweat-soaked and blood-stained sheets and blankets.

\--

It’s been two weeks since Shiro had found Keith dying in an alleyway on Christmas Eve.

It’s been two weeks since Keith had been brought into his home and turned into a vampire on Christmas Day.

Not much has changed since then but the intensity of which Keith had been going through his after death has lessened. 

The younger vampire can finally keep down more blood than throwing it up. His body must be almost cleared of whatever it is that it ejects when completing turning into a vampire. It leaves Shiro anxious about what’s to come next but also letting a small hope kindle in his chest over Keith making it through the process. It’s been a long road for Keith even though he’s only a few weeks into his new vampiric life.

This whole situation has caused some reflection on Shiro’s part, and as much as he doesn’t like to dwell on those early years of his life as a vampire, they can’t help but lay themselves out in front of him. 

He remembers the loneliness, the fear, the ache in his body and exhaustion that threatens to claim his consciousness. The darkness around him that wouldn’t end and the things that hid away in that darkness, waiting for a moment of weakness to lay their violent hands against his skin. 

He thinks of them in a way that he uses to better Keith’s transition from human to vampire. He knows about the pain of turning, having been in such a dire situation where everything around him wanted to claim his life, and so he actively works to make sure that doesn’t happen to Keith.

If Keith is interested, one day in the distant future if he so chooses, the older vampire could talk about his life.


End file.
